


Lipstick

by hylian_reptile



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Thank You Ao3 For Having The Perfect Tag Just for Me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 18:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13863564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hylian_reptile/pseuds/hylian_reptile
Summary: Grif already spends an embarrassing amount of time looking at Simmons’s lips, and now the lipstick nonsense just made it worse.





	Lipstick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prim_the_Amazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/gifts).



> here comes the ACTUAL porn i promised prim!! here u go dear *blows kiss*

The first time they fucked— _outside_ of the Tower thing, thanks—Simmons nearly had a meltdown discovering that Grif could undo someone else’s pants, and then an actual meltdown over the fact that Grif already knew how to suck a dick, and then they had to get over the fact that hey yeah Grif did, in fact, have experience with guys, yes it was before Blood Gulch, yes there may or may not have been another incident at Blood Gulch, hey Simmons could you maybe _not_ be that douche who grills someone about their exes?

 

Not like Simmons had been _complaining_ about Grif’s experience during the Tower incident.

 

And then that’d set the vaguely wonky tone of the relationship learning curve: two people dancing around a subject without wanting to acknowledge they’re dancing even though they were boning on a regular basis, which meant that Grif hasn’t gotten the chance to give Simmons a blowjob since. A lot of Simmons looking like he wants to say something, and Grif _knowing_ that he and Donut had unironically talked about handcuff usage, and Grif having his own box of un-vanilla sex junk that he wanted to have a go at, and then there’s this whole thing about if they’re gonna tell everyone else about this relationship or not?

 

But like. Simmons couldn’t even handle Grif having an ex. (They hadn’t even talked about the moonbase thing, or Grif suddenly always wanting to sleep in Simmons’s bed, or playing the TV in the middle of the night just so it isn’t quiet.) So what’s a man to do?

 

The good news is that Grif and Simmons have always been very good at occupying themselves while waiting for shit to resolve. Considering that Simmons had never sucked a dick before, he learned _very_ fast.

 

Then Donut’s birthday happens.

 

* * *

 

 

Every week, Red Team gets together to give Donut the time of day, also known as indulging his wine and cheese hour. Every _year_ , on Donut’s birthday, Red Team pulls up their big-boy pants and indulges Donut’s ever-increasingly eldritch-horror schemes, come hell or high water, for better or for worse, with trepidation and fear of the vast unknowns that their wayward pink teammate may call upon them to confront.

 

For Donut’s twenty-ninth birthday, he wants to put on make-up.

 

Not on himself. On _everyone else_.

 

“We have a duty to our team, men,” says Sarge, with a bravery that Grif could almost respect. They’re all sitting on the stupid Red Couch, which Sarge claimed a month ago as one of the last Blue-free spaces against the constant Blue tyranny, and it’s almost surreal, a bit, that the entire world has shifted to accommodate this impossibility that is Grif and Simmons fucking, and yet life goes on: Sarge has speeches to give and team meetings to hold.

 

Sarge says, “Donut has been there every step of the way—”

 

“Except for like, three years while he was in the desert,” says Grif.

 

“And after he got shot,” Simmons adds.

 

“I’m right here and I can hear you bad-mouthing me!” Donut sings.

 

“And when he sent away our transport ship while we were stranded at Crash Site Bravo,” says Caboose.

 

Everyone swings around to glare at him. Grif says, “Caboose, go away, you’re not even on this team! Shoo, shoo!”

 

“But I wanted to be pretty too,” says Caboose, so forlornly that everyone immediately shuts up and moves over to make room for Caboose on the Red Couch.

 

“Nevertheless,” says Sarge, resuming his speech. “There’s no sacrifice too small for our fellow teamma—”

 

“You’re only saying this because you like the makeover he did for you,” Grif says sourly.

 

“Knocking it before you’ve tried it is the coward’s way out, Private Grif,” Sarge growls. “My lips have never been so moisturized.”

 

“No more dawdling!” Donut says. “Now! Simmons! Get over here!”

 

Simmons looks sadly at Sarge, who raises his neatly-plucked-and-pencilled eyebrows. Simmons looks at Grif, who shrugs helplessly. Simmons, reluctantly, goes to sit on Donut’s side of the couch.

 

What proceeds is a bizarrely-scientific surgery on Simmons’s face, during which Simmons is repeatedly demanded to hold his face at a precise angle so Donut can wash, pat dry, and begin marking Simmons’s wrist with various shades of red and pink to determine what would work best. “Grif, yay or nay on the freckles?” Donut asks, and before Grif can really think, Grif’s already told him, “How would I even recognize him with them?”

 

“Just the acne scars, then,” Donut says. Only then does Grif wonder why Donut gives a damn about what Grif thinks about his artistic decisions on Simmons’s face.

 

Donut begins brushing away the little pockmarks at the bottom of Simmons’s cheeks like he’s got an eraser in his hands. Grif watches with a vague fascination as Donut passes on the eyeliner and goes for the mascara, darkening the fine eyelashes that had been almost invisible due to Simmons’s dull copper hair, then goes back with a soft brown eyeliner that matches the color of his freckles. Rouges under the cheeks and bronzes the cheekbones, which Simmons really doesn’t need, considering that Simmons’s face is like, sixty-percent cheekbone anyway. Only a hint of eyeshadow—again, Grif doesn’t think Simmons really needs, considering Simmons is fully capable of his nerdy bedroom-eyes by himself.

 

And then Donut pulls out the brightest, most vivid, sharply scarlet shade of red lipstick.

 

“Stick your lips out,” Donut says, which gets Simmons to do the most embarrassing lip-pucker that Grif’s ever seen, and that really says something, because Grif saw Simmons’s first attempts at kissing. “No, not like that! Open your mouth—gently!—Lord and Jesus—like you’re caressing the air with your mouth!”

 

“Like I’m _what_?”

 

“Ugh, no, no, no!” Donut cries, and huffs, and steadies himself. “Okay: Simmons. Imagine there’s a noodle in front of you.”

 

“Uh-huh?” says Simmons.

 

“And that the noodle is being dangled by someone who wants you to eat it without using your hands.”

 

“Uhhhhhhh… huh,” says Simmons. His mascara’d eyelids narrow in suspicion.

 

“And that the noodle is very large, and shorter than most noodles, maybe as long as six inches or so, if you’re lucky? With a fair bit of girth around, but not too much girth because that’d be uncomfortable to—”

 

“This doesn’t sound like a noodle anymore,” says Simmons.

 

“And the object of the game,” says Donut, “is to put the thick, six-inch noodle into your mouth, without letting it touch your teeth.”

 

“What kind of noodle—” Caboose begins, before Sarge covers Caboose’s ears. “Oh! I think someone turned off the lights?”

 

Simmons has the grumpy, accosted face of a man who’s given blowjobs facing down another man who’s given blowjobs, filled with the overwhelming urge to snottily correct false information on blowjob-giving especially because Donut knows it’s false, but also filled with the overwhelming urge to cling to the shreds of his perceived straightness and therefore the need to pretend that he has no idea how to give a blowjob after all. Alas, this is not a showdown between twunks, but a showdown between the two great loves of Simmons’s life: pretending he knows more than everyone else, and pretending he’s completely heterosexual.

 

Donut takes in Simmons’s grumpiness like he’s received the best birthday present of his life, which, knowing his shitty troll-seeking ways, he probably has.

 

At length, after glancing at Grif, Simmons evidently decides that now is not the time to open up about “hey so ever since that Tower thing I suddenly have a burning lust for fat Hawaiian men,” so Simmons opens his mouth—”Wider!” Donut chirps—and lets Donut hold his face in place.

 

Now, Grif is a simple man. He considers himself to have simple wants. And Grif and Simmons haven’t really gotten that far in terms of exploration, and Grif isn’t _entirely_ vanilla, but Grif highly suspects that he’s more vanilla than Simmons is and Simmons just doesn't want to say anything. Still: Grif likes the golden trifecta of boobs, butts, and nice faces, except that Simmons has, uh, basically none of those, and Simmons doesn’t even have a nice personality to make up for it, so the fact that Grif can even get it up in Simmons’s presence is a phenomenon that Grif can’t really explain, if he’s being honest.

 

But somewhere in Grif’s simple, mostly-vanilla head, some wires got crossed, and those wires involve watching Simmons, blushing a blotchy red and with his hands folded nervously in his lap, open his mouth (exactly like if he was waiting for someone to occupy his mouth with a cock), while his lips are painted a glossy, wet, full red color. The edges are sharp, drawing a definite line just past the edges of Simmons’s actual lips to give them the illusion of being fuller than they really are.

 

When Donut lets Simmons’s face go, Simmons screws up his face and his tongue flicks out to taste the lipstick. Grif has to cover his own mouth with a hand. “It tastes waxy,” Simmons complains.

 

“Then stop licking it, dummy,” Donut replies.

 

Grif can see Simmons resisting the urge to purse his lips into a thin line like he usually does for fear of rubbing it off on his teeth, but that just means that Simmons’s lips are set in a semi-permanent pout. Between the high cheekbones, the dark colors catching Simmons’s long eyelashes, and the sharp red mouth…

 

“Me next!” Caboose cries.

 

Donut clicks the lipstick case shut. “Of course! I’m thinking a dark royal blue for the lipstick—your skin’s dark enough to pull it off—”

 

“Don’t encourage his awful Blue ways,” Sarge protests.

 

“Blue sounds lovely, Captain Crêpes!”

 

“I’m just gonna,” Simmons mumbles, and with Donut’s attention on Caboose, Simmons slinks off to the bathroom.

 

Grif gets up and follows.

* * *

 

 

By the time Grif finds Simmons in the bathroom they share between their rooms, Simmons has already scrubbed away the foundation, which means that all the contour is gone and the acne scars are back, and Grif is slightly less unnerved by a real-life, kinda-hot-but-kinda-uncannily-photoshopped Simmons with sexy eyebrows walking around the base. (Okay, on second thought, Grif could work with the eyebrows thing.) Simmons, for his part, doesn’t look entirely surprised to see Grif, and he doesn’t look very repentant about ruining Donut’s hard work.

 

“Let me guess,” Simmons says. “You’re going to mysteriously go missing when it’s your turn to get the make-up treatment?”

 

“I would never,” says Grif, in mock horror. “I am, in fact, here to make sure _you’re_ not getting rid of the make-up that _you_ agreed to wear for Donut’s birthday, because I’m a diligent and considerate member of Red Team.”

 

Simmons rolls his eyes even as he scrubs at the last of the foundation, and nicks the left corner of the lipstick, smearing it not even half an inch. “Whatever,” he mutters, pulls a new oil wipe, and raises it to his lips.

 

“Uh, hang on,” says Grif. “Maybe you really shouldn’t take that off.”

 

Simmons’s look is more scathing than bewildered. “Are you for real? I look stupid!”

 

“What? No you don’t.”

 

“I look like a clown!”

 

“You _don’t_ ,” says Grif.

 

 _That_ gets an appraising look from Simmons. Shit, the “Grif” thing to say would have been something about _haha yeah dude you look ridiculous, wipe that shit off_ or something, right? Oh, jesus, the normal boyfriend thing would have been to say _oh yeah I only like regular dudes who do regular things who never wear makeup sometimes_ , right? Okay, wait, now he’s being nervous—he can’t be the nervous boyfriend or they’re sunk. Be cool, Grif. Be confident.

 

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhh, no?” says Grif, trying to be nonchalant, feeling like he’s playing a caricature of himself. Be cool, Grif, be cool. He leans up against the bathroom sink, which only earns an increasingly-suspicious look from Simmons. “I’m just saying, you know, it’d piss off Donut, and it’s his birthday and we’re trying to be nice to him. And it’d be a shame. Because it looks nice. Objectively. Nothing to do with my opinion or anything. Have I mentioned it’s Donut’s birthday?”

 

Simmons’s lips do the pursed down-quirk thing that they do when he knows Grif’s bullshitting, but also when Grif starts rambling, because apparently Simmons still has thoughts about the moonbase thing that he doesn’t want to volunteer and Grif isn’t going to ask about because then he’d have to volunteer his _own_ thoughts about the moonbase thing. Thankfully, Grif is immediately distracted by the fact that Simmons’s lips, frowning as they are, are now a bright bright red, and Grif can see the exact way they curl down and to the right, the red lines clean except for the smudge on the tiny left corner, like someone’s only just started ruining that lipstick with their mouth—

 

“What’s going on,” says Simmons, flatly.

 

“It’s just so you don’t piss off Donut when we go back,” says Grif. Without thinking, he reaches out and wipes at the smudge in the corner. It barely smears at all without the oil from the make-up wipe. Simmons somehow ends up standing closer. Grif can feel the inch of space between them in heat. Volleyballs on the moon never felt warm.

 

“Ugh, Donut,” says Simmons, making a face, which Grif _knows_ is supposed to be whiny and ugly but it turns Simmons’s lips into a momentary pout. Emphasizes the lower lip, which is his favorite lip. Very biteable. Becomes nice and red and shiny after a blowjob. Grif already spends an embarrassing amount of time looking at Simmons’s lips, and now the lipstick nonsense just made it worse.

 

“Do we have to go back?” Simmons is saying. “Can’t we just hide out here and say we fell asleep? Maybe we can say we got locked in?”

 

“That might work for the Temple thing, but this is our own bedroom, dumbass.”

 

Simmons rolls his eyes. There’s _definitely_ some glitter thing going on in his eyeshadow. “Okay, whatever, I’ll take the lipstick off, and we can go hide in our room.”

 

“But,” Grif protests.

 

Simmons visibly swallows. “W-We can lock the room and… you know...” he says, with an accompanying, painfully-shy attempt at a come-hither look. "We could  _Temple of Procreation_."

 

Grif starts laughing.

 

"I'm trying!" Simmons says grumpily. "What do you want me to say? 'Let's fuck'?"

 

"That's what  _most_ people say, dumbass!"

 

Alas, here comes the hardest decision of Grif’s medium-length life: Simmons, Grif’s piece-of-shit sex-shy boyfriend, wearing lipstick à la Grif’s newfound weird sex kink, is standing against the sink, and Grif is standing against Simmons, and Simmons’s hands are beginning their tentative creep out of the “friendly” skin zone and into the “boyfriend” skin zone, and Simmons is doing his still-nervous flirting that he’s _still_ not good at, but getting better, considering how many times they’ve stood in this exact bathroom, talking about avoiding the rest of Red Team, and wound up fucking in the private shower. The idea that Simmons is real and here and breathing and warm against Grif’s skin seems suddenly impossible, like some part of him still believes he should have died alone on the moon base and he’s only trying to fool himself into believing that he can feel Simmons’s cyborg scars and bristly light arm-hairs and long, flat fingers.

 

And with all that in mind: weirdly-attractive man is presenting either a) sex _without_ lipstick, or b) no sex but _with_ lipstick, because he’s too fucking stupid to realize how hot he is.

 

Like, come _on_.

 

“You could,” says Grif, and then loses his nerve to say the rest of _You could keep the lipstick on_. “Um.”

 

Simmons looks concerned, now. And it’s still unfairly pretty with the mascara.

 

Okay, fuck this shit. Grif's not going to ask him to keep the lipstick on. Grif just kisses him square on the lips.

 

“I gotta take the—” says Simmons, but then he gets distracted, and Grif’s _almost_ diverted his attention altogether except he pulls away at the last second to say, “I gotta take the lipstick off!”

 

“Just leave it on,” says Grif.

 

“I’m not _that_ lazy! It’ll take two seconds—”

 

“It’s fine, just—”

 

Second time’s the charm: Simmons shuts up and relaxes into the kiss, softer, more tongue. They’ve done this before. Safe territory. Actually, they’ve done this a _lot_ , considering they’ve only been at it for a few weeks; Grif already knows how Simmons loves Grif’s hand in his hair, and Simmons knows that Grif has a sensitive neck. Little kisses, like he’s tasting the skin there, then harder, with teeth, with that deep suction until Grif is gasping and pulling at Simmons’s hair.

 

Simmons pulls away. His lipstick is beginning to smudge at the corners. He looks—what’s that word? Debauched. Grif gets a hand on Simmons’s hard-on through his pants, and Simmons’s hips jerk. They're really the worst kind of horny teenagers, fucking every other hour in every room, unable to have a single make-out session that doesn't devolve into groping and handjobs, except that they're both over thirty.

 

“Grif, you should see the hickey on your neck,” Simmons says, sounding surprised, and then even more so when he sees Grif’s face. “Oh jesus, you’re covered in marks… You know how hard it is getting a mark on your dark skin to show up?”

 

Grif snorts, but his stomach flips. “Uh, no, I haven’t tried to give myself a love bite, dumbshit.”

 

“I’m not good at dirty talk!” Simmons cries and hides his face.

 

“Holy shit, that was _dirty talk_?”

 

Which makes Grif start laughing at him again, which means Grif then has to explain that he wasn’t laughing _at_ Simmons, he just thought it was cute, he promises, except then Simmons gets all bristly because he doesn’t like that he likes being called _cute_. The great thing about their arguments now, though, is that Grif can literally kiss it away.

 

But every time Simmons’s lips brush Grif’s skin, a little more red rubs off, like a little map of where Simmons’s kisses have gone. Simmons’s lipstick is wrecked. Grif can feel Simmons’s hard-on against his hip.

 

Simmons’s eyes glitter when he looks at Grif’s marks, like Grif’s something special, like Simmons actually _likes_ him.

 

Grif’s done thinking about this: he drops to his knees on the bathmat and pops Simmons’s fly open. Simmons jerks up against the bathroom counter. He accidentally knocks his own spare glasses into the sink and nobody cares.

 

“Come _on_ ,” he says, when Simmons stares. “Stop making a big deal out of it. You can’t have all the fun all the time.”

 

Simmons looks so surprised that he just nods without words. He’s got that keen-eyed look in his eye again, one thumb rubbing over Grif’s cheek, and Grif _knows_ that there’s a lipstick mark there.

 

Grif pulls Simmons’s dick out and swallows him down.

 

Simmons’s hands fly up to his mouth but it’s too late, he’s already moaning—”Grif, holy shit, you’re so—ah, _ah_ —” as Grif pulls back up and kisses the head once, twice. “You’re so _good_ at this,” Simmons whispers.

 

Oh, not this shit about Grif’s past experience again. Grif sucks harder, but it doesn’t make Simmons shut up: “You’re so—Grif, you’re so good, you look so good, I didn’t know, you with a cock in your mouth is so fucking hot and I had no idea—”

 

Grif’s stomach flips again, or maybe becomes heavy with some heat he hasn’t felt in years. He tightens his grip on Simmons’s hips and sucks harder, faster, and Simmons moans louder.

 

“Your mouth is so—so good, so warm,” Simmons babbles, “your tongue and ohhhh oh I have to shut up people are going to hear this is embarrassing—” just when Grif gives his cock a filthy lick up the underside and Simmons whimpers, because Simmons fucking _knows_ Grif likes it, don’t he fucking dare try to stop talking now, and then maybe they don’t have to talk about the fact that Simmons has never said anything quite like this before and Grif is, uh, _pretty okay_ with it.

 

“I can _feel_ you swallowing,” Simmons says, “I can feel your  _throat_ , how are you doing that, I never thought we’d ever, Grif I missed you so much when you left, I had no idea, and now you’re here and you’re so _perfect_  and I don’t know how to—how to say—" His hips are bucking and Grif doesn't even try to hold him in place, just lets Simmons fuck the back of his throat. "—I want, need, go faster, Grif, please, please—”

 

Grif stops thinking. Simmons stops making sense. It takes him another minute before Simmons comes down the back of Grif’s throat, so Grif swallows and swallows until Simmons is shaking and sensitive and soft.

 

“Jesus,” Simmons pants. “Holy shit, that was… that was crazy, that was so good, you’re so good…”

 

Grif doesn’t even know if he can talk and it’s not because he had a dick down this throat, so he doesn’t try, just lets Simmons pull him into another lipsticky kiss and the waistband of his sweats down. “I can’t believe we waited this long to fuck,” Simmons mumbles, and Grif can feel his lips move against his cheek and the warm breath, the waxy tug of the lipstick as Simmons presses kiss after kiss to the side of Grif’s face, down to his neck, mumbling, “You’re being so good for me, just like that, with your pretty face and pretty cock and gorgeous mouth—”

 

By the time Simmons gets a proper stroke going on Grif’s cock, Grif’s already panting and on the edge, feeling both drunk and like he should tell Simmons that he’s wrong and that Grif doesn’t deserve words like these, but nothing comes out of his throat but one long moan.

 

“I love when you make noises,” Simmons says quietly, “you don’t know how hot you sound, I want to make you feel as good as you are to me”—right into Grif’s ear as his hand speeds up. Grif yelps. He comes clinging to his shoulders like Simmons’s whole body were a lifeline. Simmons strokes him and murmurs that “it’s okay, I’ve got you, so good when you come, Grif, you’re okay, you’re okay,” and Grif nearly collapses against Simmons, who just holds him tighter.

 

They spent some undefined stretch of time just standing there, panting against each other. Simmons has got half his face pressed into the top of Grif’s hair, his hand moving along Grif’s back, and Grif can feel him trying to catch his breath. Simmon’s skin is still hot to the touch. Grif closes his eyes and breathes. Smells like sex and heat.

 

Feels a little bit like he got taken apart, cleaned out, and then crushed back together, and he has no idea why.

 

They should probably talk about that. But then they wouldn’t be Grif and Simmons, would they.

 

“Was that okay?” Simmons asks, eventually, without moving his face from Grif’s hair.

 

Grif hums something affirmative.

 

“When was the last time you washed your hair,” Simmons asks.

 

Grif makes a noncommittal noise.

 

“Okay,” Simmons sighs, and tucks a strand behind Grif’s ear, and then mumbles mostly to himself: “I can’t believe I unironically used the word ‘gorgeous’ during sex.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Grif actually gets a look in the mirror, Simmons has already gone from nervous to shyly satisfied: Half of Grif’s face and neck is littered in lipstick marks and hickeys. And Grif’s not trying to admit that he’s into it or even think about it too hard, but he’s going to say, for the record, that there’s something reassuring about being visibly covered in Simmons’s kisses.

 

The flip side is, Simmons’s lipstick is absolutely ruined.

 

It takes Grif a bit to clear his post-blowjob-throat and to figure out the energy for words. "Didn't _you_ want to take the lipstick off," he asks.

 

Simmons immediately looks less smug, but not by a whole lot. “Well. That's. A coincidence,” he says, but Simmons also won’t stop looking at the markings on Grif’s neck with obliviously-obvious interest and he’s still got his hands a little _too_ low on Grif’s waist for anything chaste, which, considering that they _just_ fucked, is a whole new level of horny from Simmons, so Grif is going to say that Simmons definitely has a positive opinion on the lipstick.

 

“You gotta clean up your face, dude, it's smudged all over,” Grif says. His voice sounds a little wonky. “Pass me one of those remover wipes, too, because I’m not going back out there like this.”

 

Simmons does so, just as he says, “Seriously, we could just… _not_ go back?”

 

“You want to do it _again_?” Grif asks.

 

“W—well—I’m just _saying,_ ” Simmons begins, looking guilty, “that the bed is right there, and the party’s—it’s probably already over, anyway, and...”

 

“You rebellious, horny truant,” Grif says.

 

“It’s just Donut’s party! Nobody cares! It’s practically a team tradition to attend Donut’s birthday parties and then immediately attempt to escape!”

 

Grif snorts. “Okay, point. Give me a bit. I gotta get something first.”

 

“No post-sex cigarettes,” Simmons says immediately.

 

“You’re such a square,” Grif says.

 

“It makes you taste disgusting!”

 

“Pretty sure you’d kiss me anyway.”

 

“I mean!” says Simmons, grumpily. “Okay, yes! I would! But! I won’t _like_ it!”

 

That makes Grif snort—makes him grin a little bit like a doofy, post-coital dumbass, actually. “Okay, yeah, fine. Be back in a sec.”

 

* * *

 

 

Grif pokes his head into the common room, where Caboose appears to be animatedly recounting some Blue Team drama for Donut and Sarge’s gossip-loving entertainment. “Hey, uh, Donut,” Grif interrupts, and doesn’t feel guilty at all when Donut gives him a delighted, knowing smile even before Grif asks: “Could I borrow the red lipstick for a bit?”


End file.
